The Lost Choice (18 page)

“No,”Adams said, rising.“I have other committee work to accomplish, a letter to Abigail overdue, and,” he said, patting the pages inside his coat pocket,“I must prepare this.” As Jefferson walked his friend to the door,Adams turned. “One more thing,Thomas, if it is not an inconvenience.”

“None at all,” Jefferson said, stopping for a moment.

Adams ran his hand over his balding head.“Thomas . . .” He paused.

“Is something wrong, John?” Jefferson asked, a concerned expression on his face.

Adams spoke.“I wish that you not see my query as personal, but as a matter of direction for our nation . . .”

“Go ahead,” Jefferson said guardedly. “What is it?”

“Do you truly believe that—how did you put it?—‘all men are created equal'?”

“Of course.”

Adams let his friend's answer hang in the air for a moment, then said, “Excellent. Well, then, consider the words. Good evening,” and he turned to go.

“Wait,” Jefferson said, stopping him.“You're speaking of my slaves.”Adams said nothing.“John, you know how I feel about slavery. I am against it. I've written and published papers on the subject!”

Adams slowly nodded.“Yet you own them still,Thomas.”

Jefferson appeared anguished. “My intentions, how-ever—”

Adams held up his hand to cut him off.“By your hand, the people shall be free—or not. Thomas, you will always be my friend. But I fear that a passion for liberty cannot possibly be as strong in the breasts of those who become accustomed to depriving their fellow creatures of theirs. It is a choice,Thomas, and one that history will record.”

ONLY A FEW DAYS LATER, THE OFFICIAL DOCUMENT— the Declaration of Independence—was signed. There was no special recognition of the moment, no ceremony, merely a room full of men doing what they believed to be right and true. As each name was affixed to the page, the men were aware that defeat was not an option. If the war were to be lost, the owners of names so prominently displayed would most assuredly be hunted down and executed as traitors to the crown.

For the most part, all fifty-six signers of the document felt the tug of history as they “pledged their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honor.” Only the signature of Stephen Hopkins from Rhode Island showed any evidence of a quaking hand. He had long endured severe palsy and signed his name using his left hand to guide his right. On completion of the letters to his name, Hopkins straightened himself and said, “Gentlemen! My hand trembles. My heart does not.”

John Adams went on to serve the young nation as the second president of the United States of America. Thomas Jefferson was elected president following Adams. They remained friends though they did not always agree—and as history records, more often than not, this was the case. Their lives, however, were intertwined by destiny. Two men, brought together for a moment that changed the world.

Many years later, on Friday, June 30, 1826, several of Boston's leaders made their way to nearby Braintree to visit the ailing ex-president. Adams was in his library, seated in his favorite chair. In four days, he was told, the nation would celebrate its fiftieth anniversary—fifty years to the day from which the Declaration of Independence was ratified. Would he, they wondered, offer a toast to be presented to the huge crowds that were expected? Without hesitation, the old man raised his voice and said, “Independence forever!” When asked if there was anything else he would care to add, Adams smiled.“Not a word,” was his response.

On that evening, July 4, the Adams children and grandchildren gathered around the great man's bedside and listened with him as the cheers and happy explosions of fireworks resounded throughout the city. His heart stopped at 6:20. John Adams was 90 years, 247 days old. His last words were,“Thomas Jefferson survives.” But Jefferson had died three hours earlier.

TWELVE

DENVER, COLORADO—NOVEMBER

AN HOUR AFTER THEIR EARLY MORNING BREAK-fast, they were all in Dylan's office as he finished his call to the Smithsonian. Abby had pulled the folding chair from behind the door and was seated facing Dylan. Mark, his hands stuffed in his pockets, listened in silence with his back against the closed door while Dorry, on her knees at Dylan's desk, scribbled questions and ideas on a notepad as they all listened to one side of the conversation.

From his swivel chair, Dylan was enjoying the reactions of the others as he repeated the facts given to him over the phone. “Yes,” he said in conclusion. “We'll e-mail our museum's ID codes, address, UPS account numbers . . .You'll get everything within the hour . . .Yes, please overnight it. And Don, one more thing, would it be possible for you to include the Quincy letter with that item? . . .Great. Thanks so much. Listen, anything you ever need on this end, let me know. Take care.”

Dylan reached across the desk, replacing the handset in its cradle, and then spun his chair in a full circle.“Yeow!” he exulted.“What do you think about that?!”

“Adams
and
Adams,” Dorry said, still writing. “It's incredible. I wish I remembered more history, but I'll look all this up.”

Mark spoke. “I think we all got everything he said. By the way, your guy is still running the computer, right?”

“Oh, yeah. It runs 24/7. Even when he's gone.”

“We need to meet again tonight, don't we?” Mark asked the group in general.

“Yes,” Dorry answered. “Definitely.”

Abby stifled a yawn.“I'm up for it,” she said,“but I have to get some sleep at some point.”

Dylan glanced at the clock on his desk. “I say we go till lunch, head home to sleep, then over to Mark and Dorry's . . .” Catching Abby's “look” and realizing he had just invited himself over to their house, Dylan quickly apologized. “I'm sorry. That was rude. Will it be okay to meet at your house?”

Dorry smiled and waved off the apology.“No problem; our place is fine. That'll make it easier on me.”

“Great! I'll want to come by here before we head your way. I can check on Perasi. Who knows? We might get some up-to-the-minute stuff.” He paused, thinking carefully, then said, “I'm also going to call Don back at the Smithsonian. Obviously, he'll still have to overnight the relic, but I want to see if he'll fax or e-mail me the letter from John Quincy Adams. Then we'll have it for tonight.”

They waited patiently while Dylan punched the numbers into his desk phone, then talked briefly with his back to them. Within seconds, he hung up and swung his chair back around. “He's already out of his office. I left a message on his voice mail. I'm sure it won't be any problem.”

“Did the guy . . . Don, right?”Abby asked.“Did he read any of the letter to you?”

“Naw. He said it was pretty long and is about John Quincy Adams turning the object over to the collection of his father's personal items. Don said he found the letter when he ran his own in-house search for the object. Evidently, the letter is a part of the Quincy Adams grouping— anyway, I think we'll have a copy of it tonight.”

“Yeah,” Mark said,“I'm curious about that whole thing. So . . . what time tonight?”

Dorry broke in.“You guys just come on over when you wake up. I'll have food, so no need to stop on the way.” Then to Dylan she said, “Can I hang here until you two leave? I don't have anything pressing at the
Post,
and I'd like to meet Perasi, see the computer . . . you know?”

“Sure,” Dylan said.“The way this is unfolding, well, it'd be a heck of an article, huh?”

“Don't think that hasn't crossed my mind,” Dorry said, “but right now, I feel as though I've been reading the world's greatest mystery and someone has torn out the pages of the last chapter!”

DORRY WALKED INTO THE LIVING ROOM TO PLACE A tray of taco shells on the table and saw the headlights of Dylan's car as it turned into the driveway. She waited at the door and, as he and Abby walked up, ushered them inside. They looked much better, Dorry noticed, than they had earlier. Fresher, cleaner, both wore jeans and sweatshirts. Dylan had a medium-size cardboard box in his hands.“I slept. I showered,”Abby said as she gave Dorry a quick hug.

“Hey, tacos!” Dylan said as he moved toward the table.

“Yessir,” Dorry said. “My finest meal. You guys make yourselves at home—drinks in the kitchen—let me get Michael settled. Mark will be right in.”

“Hi, guys,” Mark said from the kitchen.“You both look . . . awake. Dorry won't be long. Coke? Coffee? Green Kool-Aid? Whadaya want?” Abby and Dylan joined him there as he poured soft drinks, making small talk while they waited.

A few minutes later,Dorry joined the group and flopped into a chair at the table. “Whew!” she said. “Michael is a handful. Okay, let's eat.” She took hold of the armrests on the chair and started to pull herself up again, but was stopped by Dylan.

“Hang on, Dorry,” he said. “You want to see what we have before we eat?”

“Actually, yes, but I thought you would be hungry.”

Dylan grinned.“Forget the food for a minute. Mark, get Dorry some coffee. She'll want to be awake for this.”

When Dorry had her cup, they all settled forward, elbows on the table, and Dylan began. “You first? Or me first?” he asked Abby.

“You go,” she said.“Start with the letter.”Then to Mark and Dorry, she added, “I will give you the measurements from the radio scope after he's finished.”

Dylan began by opening the cardboard box he had placed on the floor beside his chair. Removing the page on top, the Chandlers could see that it was a faxed copy of what they assumed to be the letter from John Quincy Adams.“We'll have the original in our hands tomorrow,” Dylan said, “but for our purposes, this is just as good. We won't be testing paper or anything like that. It's the letter's content that is important. And the content is . . . well . . .” He glanced at Abby who smiled and pretended to shiver, “Let's just say the content of this letter confirms some of what we already know and creates a few more possibilities. It is addressed to the ‘Committee of Presidential Archives.'” He passed the page to Mark.“Here. Read it aloud.”

Mark took it and saw that the handwriting was beautiful and flowing. The letter had been written on stationery with an
A
printed at the top of the page in an old, swirling style. The date, handwritten in the top right corner, was December 27, 1847.

Dear Sirs,

I trust this missive to find you healthy and of good cheer as we seek together yet another new year. Endeavoring to depart this earth with as firm a foundation erected for the legacy of my father, John Adams, I humbly submit this personal heirloom to your trust as belonging to his effects, more certainly than my own.

On the evening of his passing, goaded merely by impulse, I plucked it from his bedside as a remembrance of him. Unimpressive though the object may seem, family history insists upon it once belonging to Jeanne d'Arc. Nevertheless, my grandfather, five generations removed, brought the object from Somerset in 1638. From him, or at least from that point, it passed from father to son until it was possessed by my father.

The markings visible on the object are Aramaic. Translated by him as a young man, they read,“By your hand, the people shall be free.” Knowing these words, knowing how fervently my father believed them to be true, and being aware of the part he played in the founding of our nation, I considered the item a remembrance of my personal heritage—much the same as another child might view his father's pocketknife or timepiece. In any case, I have carried it with me during my life, as did my father.

Incidentally, my surviving son, Charles, initiated this action that I am presently undertaking, for he is of the opinion that the item not be placed upon his shelf or in his pocket as was my intention, but entrusted into your care as a personal item of the second president of these United States.

One final point. Aware as I am of my own advanced age and declining health, it is incumbent upon me to bow to the importance of written record. I am hesitant to include the following observation for it has no basis in hard fact or historical meaning. My next words delve rather deeply into impression and perception— and for that, I beg you forgive an old man. I will strive to convey this occurrence in a factual manner and avoid the slack-jawed wonder by which I remember it.

As I noted earlier, this object of my father's has been carried on my person, until this day, for more than twenty-one years. Always in the high right pocket of my coat. Often, as I walked the halls of government, the item's translation sprang to mind, but other than my wife and children, to my certain knowledge, no one understood the markings and further, no other person held the object—save two—and both these exceptions occurred on the same day.

As you are aware, I ended my self-imposed retirement twelve full years after my presidency ended in order to appear as an attorney before our nation's Supreme Court. My defense of the Africans aboard the slave schooner
Amistad
was successful, but as the official pronouncement of “not guilty”was made on March 9, 1841, one of the strangest events in my life took place.

Chief Justice Marshall declared the slaves to be at liberty and directed that they be returned to their homeland. At that moment, Cinque, the man who had led the
Amistad
revolt, looked to me for confirmation that he was indeed, now free, and plainly asked, in English,“May I see the stone?” At first, I did not understand, but again, he asked, then tapped my pocket with his hand.

I removed the object. Cinque took it in his hand and kissed it.

Many people in the courtroom witnessed this brief exchange. One other attorney, however, Francis Scott Key of the District of Columbia, an ally of mine in the defense, gently removed it from Cinque's hand and sat down. As I continued to receive the medley of congratulation and threat a case of this sort generates, I watched Key from the corner of my eye. For a quarter of an hour, he alternately stared at the object and looked away as if seeking to remember a forgotten name.